NonFatal
by cognomen
Summary: In which Norrington comes to terms with his new station in life. It's easier to fall into some habits than one would expect. Trades, by nature, leave you with less value than you started with. Slash, BeckettMercerNorrington I'm sorry.


Beckett allowed for a certain measure of affection in his day. Much of this was reserved for Mercer, of all things. It was still a distant sort of affection - like a hunter might reserve for a particularly skilled hound. Occasionally he even made mention of his pet assassin in the same sort of light, recounting his latest work as if it were only foxes hunted, rather than people dispatched for the fact that they were _inconvenient. _

Occasionally, James had the rare pleasure of receiving this attention for himself. This was slightly less distanced - more the real sort of affection that human beings could share. Most often this was when his hound was acting more the role of _bloodhound_, sniffing and prowling about for the sort of interesting things that only a spy could locate. James did his best to not consider the exact reasons for this - he doubted sincerely that Cutler expected to spare either of his loyal followers from jealousy, but rather that he wished neither injured from any sort of argument that might stem from a vie for his attention. Having one or both injured would hamper effectiveness.

Especially since both of his dogs had demonstrated a previous streak of unpredictability.

James found Mercer's constant presence somewhat unnerving - the man had a habit of stepping in exactly when it was the most embarrassing. Worse, was his habit of _staying_, completely heedless of the activity he had interrupted, or was _interrupting_. Beckett indulged this habit, letting the man deliver his mission reports or stand guard inside the room. He seemed completely unaffected by Mercer's presence, though James was always put off. It must have been some measure of Cutler's character that he thought nothing of having another, uninvolved, party in the room during sex.

Beckett seemed always playfully - _dangerously - _amused at James' discomfort.

"Come now, Admiral. It's only Mercer." He said, as if the man's presence was akin to a dog at the foot of the bed.

Only, Mercer had the unsettling ability to look at you and make you feel as if every inch of your skin would make an excellent home for a dagger. Mercer's presence meant a predatory stare, and James suspected the man amused himself in his long moments of silence by measuring exactly how many items in the room could be used to kill it's occupants, if necessary. Mercer's expression never strayed to softer emotion - certainly, it ran the full gamut of predatory. Predatory-playful, predatory-satisfied, predatory-hunting, and predatory-false remorse all made comfortable homes on the assassin's features. Nothing touched his eyes.

Beckett, also, was impossible to get unclothed. The man was a master of redirection, distraction, and downright refusal. James often found himself working hard to get at mere inches of skin, working around buttons and zippers, hands careful on starched breeches. James was naked at a _command_, if Cutler was in the sort of mood that meant there would be no questions-refusals-or pity. These nights, he had eyes darker and more dangerous than the sea.

While Cutler was impossible for James to read, Mercer had an uncanny ability when it came to detecting the Lord's mood. Most commands between them went unspoken - a glance could mean a hundred things, and James had yet to see the assassin err. Better, when Beckett desired no company that he would find onerous, Mercer could ramp up his intimidating presence to an alarming level - often finding a variety of knives on his person to sharpen with singular menace. Certainly, if that hint was not enough, there was always the flintlock he wore at the small of his back to be carefully primed and loaded - a process that the man had down to a quick science. The two worked well together, though James never could get an answer out of Mercer when it came to how they'd come to the agreement.

Often he thought of tanned fingers in his hair instead, the taste of salt, sea and freedom instead of clean and soap. The price he'd paid for this - which at the time he'd had no second thoughts about. Now he wondered exactly what he'd bought - prestige and class, but on loan only. He still owed a debt to Beckett - would always. Monetary debts he would gladly have traded for this debt of servitude. Certainly, he had bought his way back to the gentleman's table, but the taste was spoiled by having to eat only the morsels fed him from a master's fingers.

Worse the collar rapidly became comfortable. Beckett was fair enough to those beneath him - so long as they remained unquestioningly loyal. Even Governor Swann had been let return more or less to normal life once he had swallowed his pride and taken the bit. Both he and James often took a step back to measure the value of a collar - as compared to a noose.

Freedom was how James distracted himself when he took to his knees in Beckett's office - the lush carpet took even the focus on knees grown sore away. Initially, he found no distraction but the hand firm on his head, the faintest hint of dry, bitter talcum on his tongue. Beckett called him nothing but Admiral, using the title more like he was calling his well-indulged pet. It also served as constant reminder of what stood to be lost.

_Submit_, the down-press of delicate fingers commanded, the soft noises of encouragement that curled forth whenever James did something clever with his tongue did the same. _That's it, you're mine._ He never seemed to notice that James wasn't thinking of him. He supposed it didn't matter he thought of messy black hair and dark eyes instead of carefully kept wigs and the colors of storm and stone. There was submission enough in act so thought didn't matter. At least, James consoled himself, he'd stopped thinking of Elizabeth.

There was the real theme in his life; exchanging one goal - obsession - for the next when it proved out of his reach. He'd bought his hunt for Jack at the cost of Elizabeth and what could have been a happy and normal enough life. When finally he'd gotten Sparrow down the sights of his pistol, he'd found that the man standing at the trigger was no better than a pirate himself. Worse, a pirate who had no head for freedom and no direction when allowed to pick his own.

At that point, he had little to trade. He found currency in desperation, and it was Beckett who put terms to what would be considered fair trade, and what would be _sold_ in the bargain. The heart was currency, his loyalty was of _real_ value.

"I suspect we can come to some kind of agreement, Mister Norrington." Beckett's smile had been cold, pleased in the careful way of hunters who have found their quarry at a disadvantage. He did not yet count the kill - indeed his measure of James in his sorriest state did not diminish his ability to see the true worth - once the grime was removed and James was restored to the Navy, he would make a clever enough trophy for the Lord's mantle. Having a reliable set of eyes and ears - most importantly, an able set of hands - in her majesty's navy was not without it's own worth.

Standing slowly, he had braced his hands on the desk in twin splays of fingers that put the heart securely in his possession. He glanced over his shoulder to make eye contact with Mercer - just at his left, and sharpening a small knife as warning that no pirate tricks would be excused. He looked up from the task as Lord Beckett shifted, waiting for instruction.

"Mister Mercer, please escort our friend somewhere he can properly bathe and attire himself." Beckett turned back to James, measuring the man's will at a glance - to determine how to break it, the Admiral now knew. "Then he and I shall take supper. At my home."

Mercer looked briefly predatory-almost surprised. He was too well trained to question outright, instead he barked a single syllable laugh. His features described amusement but his eyes said that he didn't believe James had the constitution. At the time, James had been angry at measuring short - especially in the eyes of one so common of blood and deed. Then, he hadn't realized what exactly Beckett commanded of his pets, nor the headstrong streak that had awakened when he'd served aboard the _Black Pearl_.

If Lord Beckett had one weakness, it was that the power of money paled significantly in light of absolute domination over what he desired. Particularly, he enjoyed when no money crossed palms - it meant he held all the chips. It was easier than James expected it to be - once, there would have been pride to get in the way. Somewhere he'd shed it - perhaps it had suffered the same fate as his white wig - mopping dirty deckboards with dirtier water until parts of it fell away.

Beckett's commands might once have made him angry, now they simply seemed the leads and lines that moored him. With these, like sails bound to a ship, he could have back those things which were once important. Only they seemed scarcely pleasurable now.

Even the sea was tamed - nothing would threaten the _Flying Dutchman_, and pirates fled from the East India Trading Company's flag like mice from a snake. James would soon enough have little purpose, outside of all out war. For this, he should have felt victorious. Instead he saw Beckett putting a bridle even to the sea, as if she were only a wild mare to be broke or kept. If she could not fight him, what hope did he have?

He went when he was summoned. A paper invitation once ignored had brought Mercer with another - It was worded the same as the first, but the assassin's presence was indicative enough of the exact nature of the invitation. He had never since discarded a note and he arrived promptly, even if it meant he had to walk, rather than wait for a handsome.

"Seventy eight hanged today." Was how Beckett started his dinners. "Pirates selling pirates - delightfully true to their nature, wouldn't you say, Admiral?

James never wondered if anyone he had met had been among those on the gallows that day. He never inquired after Sparrow. He avoided the square when he could, and looked pointedly at the worn cobbles when he couldn't. Beckett's power was most real there - where he could say _live_ or _die_ and it would happen. Rarely did he give life.

"Come now Admiral. They're only pirates." Cutler took two teaspoons of raw sugar in his tea, and always stirred until all hints of the grains were gone, dissolved flawlessly into the whole.

"Yes, Lord Beckett." James did his best to answer everything this way. It kept things comfortable - smooth. He could not school his expression to the same cold indifference that Beckett was a master of, but he was beginning to _feel_ it, sinking it's claws into his heart while his brain rationalized 'what did it matter?' to anything.

However, tonight the answer did not seem to please. Without taking a bite of his food, Cutler carefully set down his knife and fork. Mercer seemed suddenly noticeable - he was almost always _there_, but James had grown used to his presence enough now so that he faded when he was not an immediate threat, or when he wanted to go unnoticed. Beckett's hands came carefully together, folding graceful fingers.

"You've never bitten me once." Beckett watched carefully for reaction, his tone light but his eyes sharp. Mercer reflected his threatening agitation, working one of his favorite knives in his fingers and tensed for violence.

"Of course not." James felt distinctly trapped here, though the door was behind him and nothing between him and it. He considered the statement - no, he'd never been willful nor disobeyed. What could be cause for this sudden confrontation? Unless his lack of reaction had soured the taste of power in Cutler's mouth.

"Even Mercer broke my cane once." Beckett's fingers were tight on it now, squeezing. James felt similar curls of tension in his chest - anxiety. "It's an expensive cane - I was quite upset."

Mercer smiled slowly, but he wasn't the least distracted by the memory. He answered, lowly. "I'm an expensive pet, sir."

"But not one without use or spirit." And here, truly, was Beckett's point - there was nothing to savor. "Admiral, you're boring me. Until now I have been gracious - your thoughts are yours."

Beckett rose to his feet, and Mercer moved in close to his left without verbal command. They both pinned him with nothing but menace and longstanding silent promises. Slowly, James also rose to his feet, courseless.

Allowing himself only a brief moment of panic, James barely drowned his flinch when Mercer lunged his direction. Beckett was watching with the barest hint of interest written on his features - what he allowed himself when he found a particularly challenging game. Razor quick and knife-edge precise, Mercer pulled his wrists up hard behind his back to bind them with knots that looped and then drew tight, holding mercilessly. James didn't struggle - the knots would only have drawn tighter still. Freedom was well and truly beyond his reach, and he would gladly take these jesses than the pinwheel instability of piracy - or perhaps, this grounding. He'd been _good_ at pirating, quick to turn from civility to a desperate, snarling animal.

Here, the ties reminded him of what it was to be tame. Mercer gave a sharp wrench to the cords, the sudden searing pain dragging James downwards in an instant. When his knees touched the hardwood floor, the pain relented. Practiced, scarred fingers worked their way between his wrists and the knots, easing them looser. It wasn't mercy - looser knots meant the motion could be repeated with the same painful effects, the blood flow uninterrupted.

"You've been distant as of late, Admiral." Beckett had noticed - as he did all things that happened around him. His eyes were cool, his expression singularly intent. "What has captured your attention so completely, I wonder?"

It was best not to hesitate, and better to tell the truth in this situation. "Sparrow." Who flew free on his own wings, though the course was full of dives and spins and drunken loops. Captain Jack, of his own ship and well and free to fly his own colors, taking what he wanted and giving nothing back.

Beckett seemed displeased - though measuredly so.

"What happens to animals that go astray, Mercer?" Cutler glanced up, meeting his assassin's eyes over James' head.

Mercer clucked his tongue in what could have passed for sympathy, were James not absolutely certain that a cruel smile was spreading over the dog's features. "They get punished, sir." His curling cockney accent was alight with interest. It sent a rush of cold down into James' stomach, where it coiled like a long rope dropped from a high place, looping erratically into a growing pile of dread.

"Indeed."

Mercer's hold transferred briefly, and then his bare arm looped around James' neck, tilting his head backwards - the hold was steel, but it was natural and easy. Though thin, Mercer was stronger than anticipated. Beckett watched impassively, his eyes on James, calculating. An application of force drew James' back straight, his head held tilted to meet Beckett's eyes where the lord crouched inches away. James wondered, in a sort of panicked way, if the reason he spent so much time on his knees as of late was because he was taller than Beckett.

"Now that I have your attention, I do intend to keep it." Beckett's agile fingers moved to undo the dozen buttons keeping vest, frock and coat in perfect order. "Should you feel the need to think of pirates, I'm certain that Mercer can remind you of your current situation."

It was only then that he recognized the cool breaths against the juncture of his shoulder and neck. It was Mercer's free hand that slid down, pushing firm against the lowest part of his stomach, that sent a spike of interest through his traitorous body. James grit his teeth sharply, a grimace or snarl.

"Better." Cutler looked smug, still fully clothed, and now standing with his hands behind his back, appraising the situation. His pets, it seemed, could get along provided there was no question of pack structure. The feelings of dread roped up and transformed into sick - James felt ill at what he had been reduced to. When he looked hard at Beckett, he was forced to face what it was he had really sold, what he'd really given up and let himself surrender.

When Mercer's fingers busied themselves with the laces of his breeches, he seized on the brief transfer of the assassin's concentration and surged to his feet. Mercer followed the motion, pulling harder back on James' neck to bow his back and keep him still. Cutler had not flinched, but the struggle had brought the faintest hint of a smile to his mouth. James heaved his weight forward again, futilely. All it gained him was another sharp yank on the ties, sharp agony lancing his wrists and stilling his struggles.

"Admiral, I had begun to worry." Cutler advanced, and put his hands on James' mostly bared body. His fingers coaxed, picking up signals and signs that James would have likely missed, until the fight drained from him in the wake of trembles in his knees, the slow nerve-fire burnings that Beckett's fingers coaxed. This close, all he could do was meet Beckett's gaze evenly - there was no way to deny or escape this, even in his mind.

Mercer's support when James' legs began to buckle was sharp reminder that even his thoughts were no longer free - this was what he had traded for. Here, really was the problem with trading - every time one returned what they had gained, they could never get back it's original worth in what they acquired. He did not let his thoughts stray from the fact that it was _Beckett_ doing this to his body, whose eyes were meeting his with stormy victory - _that's it, this time you're surrendering to_ me.

Then nothing mattered but pulse and heat, and teetering precariously on the edge before a second hand joined Beckett's on James' cock - cool and no longer feeling the need to keep such a tight hold on his jesses. In fact, somewhere in the seconds-minutes-scores of minutes that he didn't bother to try and measure, his bonds had come free. His hands - independent of any conscious instruction, had fisted tightly in the worn brocade overcoat Mercer wore. He barely had time to consider this before he spent - racing breath stilling and hitching for a long instant.

A silent communication released him from Mercer's grip, and he sank to the floor - searching for genuine anger amongst his emotions. It was there, but distant - certainly, whatever had just happened didn't really matter very much. It was that - a terrible realization that whatever happened, not a part of it really _mattered_ anymore that steeled his resolve to get up, re-lace his breeches, and pull his clothes back into some semblance of order.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Admiral?" A rag passed between Mercer and Cutler, both cleaning their fingers - Cutler delicately, Mercer with as much care and attention as he gave to his pistol or knives. Both wore almost matching expressions of jackal-satisfaction, and James considered that he could not bring himself to care. Certainly, he had station as promised, and this - well, it didn't matter. He did his buttons with careful precision.

"No." And the fact that it was the truth did not even make James feel unwell.


End file.
